


What they call fate -or karma-

by Centemare



Category: Arsenic and Old Lace (1944)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alcoholism, Blood and Gore, Brooklyn, Doctors & Physicians, Fucked up Brother-Brother Relationship, I can't reallly tag anything else without spoiling the story, M/M, Original Character(s), Past Abuse, Serial Killers, Torture, Villain and Sidekick, Villains, Violence, just read I promise it's not that bad, there are hints of Jonathan/Herman but then again what doesn't, wah this looks like such a fun story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4553394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Centemare/pseuds/Centemare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Brewster is in jail, Teddy and the aunts are off to Happy Dale, and Halloween is over. Hermann Einstein has reasons to believe he can now live a happy life, entirely Jonathan- and stress-free as the merrily intoxicated surgeon he is.</p><p>Yet maybe no one should count their chickens before they're hatched, and maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't count his psychopaths either. Having one on your trail is bad enough as it is, but more than one - certainly is rather untoward. He guesses that's what they call fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Psychopaths of Brooklyn

It's almost one in the morning when I enter the bar, my case of surgical tools against me and three grams of alcohol by liter in the blood.

Indeed, sadly, my schnapps bottle found itself empty before I could reach the alcoholic coma. Slightly reeling like a ship in the midst of a storm, I collapse on the counter then order with a slow voice a glass of whiskey.

Because _for god's sake_ with the last 24 hours events I really do deserve some rest.

The barman seems a bit reluctant first to serve another glass to someone in the state I am in. But oddly, I barely have the time to utter a few words that he hurry to get me a glass. He must have liked my voice. Unconsciously I half-make a smile and he accelerate even more.

« Johnny... » I whisper when the glass arrive in front on me. Five years since I started living in his shadow, and even if each second I dreamed of running away as far as possible from him, his presence next to me became somehow customary. We slept at the hotel, he killed people, we hid the body, I redid his face when his portrait was diffused in the whole country and he threatened me of a slow and painful death every time something went wrong. This routine was very unpleasant, and yet it started to be a part of the normal course of events, and now it was broken I found myself helpless.

Things as simple as housing or food seemed insuperable to me. The murders and thefts Jonathan carried out may have been questionable in terms of the law but it was what allowed us – what allowed _me_ – to eat and sleep. The bare idea of an honest life didn't cross my head. Not since I arrived in the United States and above all since I met Jonathan. He wasn't a... a complex person. You were with him or against him gifted or stupid someone to help or someone to eliminate (nevertheless there were just a few people in the first category and almost the entire world in the second one.)

Five years, years crossing every country in the world looking for a place where Jonathan didn't have a price on his head. Then a few weeks of peace, before the police traced back the « killer that looks like Boris Karloff », and before my partner choses between leaving the country or changing his face again. I always feared the moment where I had to operate on him. I already evoked the binary side of his personality ; another aspect was that he wasn't very tolerant. When I misplaced my surgical case in a bar while the police was chasing us and that I had to fix his face as soon as possible, he made me pay. When I had been a bit too much ready-tongued while a police informer was standing behind us, he made me pay. When I rebuilt by mistake his face just like Karloff's he made me pay. A high price. During many days. Because there is a third thing you have to know about Jonathan, it's that, when he really wants to, he learns fast. Very fast.

As regards some of the most precises elements of the human body's resistance to pain, I think I was, against my will, a very good professor. If he finds me again... He doesn't really need a reason to make someone suffer. The bare idea that I didn't help him escape, or that the food was poor at the jail's canteen – he could kill me.

While my hand is still holding tight a glass I didn't even touch yet, my eyes linger unconsciously on the three first fingers, where badly healed wounds were still noticeable, bringing with them the memory of their pain.

Barely five seconds later the whole of my glass run into my throat and diffuse in my blood.

The glass is now empty in my hand and I feel I have a lot of trouble staying awake. I observe the few clients of the bar, my field of vision slightly blurred. There is a couple, at the back of the bar, actively talking around the remains of a meal. A dandy, more or less forty, is doing a little solitaire game with a satisfied look on his face. A kid of almost sixteen years old is sleeping somewhere holding an empty glass. And two or three hobos are sleeping their beer off on the bar.

None of them looks like a psychopath and sadistic murderer.

Maybe I'll enjoy my first peaceful night since... I can't even remember. A night without a recidivist killer with a butchered face in my hotel room... A night without the police siren interrupting my sleep... A night without asking myself what the hell I am doing here and without looking for a thousand ways to escape.

Behind the bar's pane three police cars turn up suddenly, their headlight turned on and their sirens screaming in the dark calm of the night.

I start on my chair, the alcohol dispelling almost entirely in my veins and giving way to sheer fear. They're coming for me. They finally realized the description matched. I need to leave this place, right now, but I can't, they're at the door. Jonathan must have told them, no, he would never do that, so why are them in front of the bar door, they will come in, they will get me, they-

A few seconds later, the three police cars have passed in front of the bar without stopping and they make their way peacefully through Brooklyn.

At first incredulous, I finally manage to catch my breath. This night, they didn't come for me. But with the description of me they have, it won't be long before they locate me. I am starting to considerate the idea of butchering my own face. I have « succeeded » a countless numbers of operations on Jonathan, why would it be different on me ? I just have to work with a mirror and I can do it. I am already starting to draw up a plan of the new face I'll give to me when someone knock on my shoulder.

A pair of cobalt eyes are staring at me, half covered by tuft of brown hair. It is slightly graying at the temples but in a very elegant way. His face is shapely, slightly hollow but smooth and he strangely remind me someone I knew though I can't get my hand on it.

The dose of alcohol in my blood must be higher than the dose of blood itself.

It's the dandy I saw shortly before and that just finished his solitaire game. He's holding in his right hand a stained and crumpled card deck, and with his left hand he's still poking me with a huge smile. He orders another drink to the barman that brings it to me as fast as the first one.

He holds out his hand that I shake without really noticing it. He's talking, too or at least I think so. He gives me another drink but I can't raise my arms. My eyes are drawn by a little detail,a newspaper clipping sticking out from his jacket's pocket. It is folded so well that I am unable to read what's written on it – and anyway I am so much intoxicated that I could barely decipher a text plastered on my face. He gives me a small plastic package very light to touch and he closes my fingers on it. I don't understand anything anymore. My brain is working in slow motion. I sway once, and he holds me then I sway a second time and this time he doesn't hold me back.

He stares at me and he smiles.

 

The light is coming inside my shut eyelids as if it was an improperly closed window. It hurts. My eyes, first, and my shoulder too. And my head hurts so _badly_. Sort of all this light was weighting tons on my skull. I had some painful hangovers, the day after important surgeries or particularly impressive torture sessions. But I think I've never wanted so _much_ to get back to sleep for as much time as possible.

Obviously, my neighbor to the right doesn't agree with it.

« Shh, let me sleep, Johnny » I whisper while ignoring the punches I earn on my right shoulder. My partner often awakes me in, let's say, a rather brutal way. I usually have the time to wake up before he starts using means of persuasion _far_ more violent.

But today I feel a fist strike my cheek and send me to the ground in one movement.

My first thought is that the tiled floor is cold. And hard. It's not the carpet of the kind of motels Johnny usually chooses. I rise a tired eyes toward the ceiling and they meet bars. Bars at the windows... And it's not Johnny's way of punching either. This one is way more intuitive and also way more powerful. I rise my head painfully, blood running from the arch of my eyebrows.

The man that just sent me on the ground is a huge, huge guy. Far bigger than me. Far bigger than anyone. He clenches his fist slightly painted with blood, and goes to sit down on the bench seat I just freed by falling down. He's tall, he's terrifying, but worst of all : I don't know him.

I've never seen him in my whole life.

My heart starts beating faster. He's not alone in the room there are also two other guys, slim and patched-up, sitting silently on the bench seat – in fact it's just an horizontal metal plate stuck against the wall, barely allowing two adult men to sit down –, both of them looking downcast. The last day's memories are slowly coming down by pieces, like a giant puzzle. Jonathan in jail. The alcohol. The bar. The dandy. The kid. The alcohol. The police cars. The alcohol. The dandy. The alcohol and... blackout.

The three words « Jonathan in jail » dance in my head until I understand why.

I _am_ in jail.

I stand up unsteadily, as fast as my little height and my hangover allow me. Bars at the window. Bars at the door. The huge guy. The metal bench seat. The tiled floor. Everything makes sense. Everything but... what happened between yesterday night and my arrival here. What if... What if Jonathan was here ? What if he saw me ? I need to escape, now – but I just need to catch the bars and I understand it's impossible. I will stay here. But I must –

« Calm down, junky, » say one of the two skinnies in the corner with a drawling voice. « Panicking won't help you out of this place. »

My hands start shaking with the combined impact of pressure and fear. I need a drink. Now. For my nerves. I'm a very nervous person and I've always been one, but it didn't went better after five years with a sadistic psychopath as exclusive company.

Seeing my terrified look, the guy keeps going. « They brought you here last night with a good pack of coke in your pocket. Really, you mustn't be the clever type to stroll around with such a huge amount on hands. There was a guy with you, the type that looks very neat, very clean, without a single arrest, but with loads of troubles behind it. Beware if you meet him again, 't must be him that grassed you on. »

I barely listen his speech, obsessed by a single idea, that I manage to utter without stuttering to much : « I- I need to get out from here. »

The two guys look at each other and burst in an overwhelming laughter.

« So do we, buddy ! But it won't be any time soon. For coke traffic, you may rot here for a long time. You better start making friends. First of all, don't annoy Dan, he's not the amusing type."

He points out with his chin the guy that threw me on the ground and that now seems to be sleeping a light sleep.

"No... I really need to get out of here... Or he will... he..."

My hands twist against each other and my huge eyes look frenetically for any way out around me.

"You'd better get used to it, buddy. It's off to a bad start."

Just when I was about to do a nervous breakdown, I hear the guard's voice shouting : "Hey you ! The trafficker !"

I turn around without really knowing if it's a good idea or not.

"Someone out here wants to see you."

I freeze. My whole being screams that I shouldn't go there. I already see Jonathan's shrill eyes staring at me with that murderous gleam that shines every time he's about to–

But the guard is already opening the door and pushing me outside, because I'm so much paralyzed by fear and tiredness that I am unable to offer any resistance to him.

My eyes hesitate between closing as hard as I could so the reality would disappear too, or widening more than ever in order to look for a loophole. They don't have the time do decide that the guard is already dropping me on a chair at the visiting room, where someone, on the other side of the railings, is waiting for me.

I look at him with terror.

It's the dandy from last night.

"Dr. Einstein" he says by showing a shining smile and putting back black flyaway locks behind his ears.

I've never been that parted between anxiety and relief of all my life.

"You shall excuse me for what happened last night. The drug, the drink, the jail... I hope you don't hold it against me."

"Who-who-who-who are you ? What do you want from me ?" I stammer.

"Don't be too impatient, dear doctor. _The best is yet to come._ We well see each other tonight at the bar you were in yesterday. I'll wait for you somewhere around midnight. Agree ?"

I barely have the time to explain him that going out in the present conditions may be a bit complicated that he's already gone and the guard is already taking me back to my cell.

The wait until dawn may probably be the longest of my life. I spend all day huddled up in a corner of the cell, waiting, thinking, trying to make the link between that mysterious man, Jonathan's recent arrest, my headache stronger than ever and my presence in jail. There isn't any. Any that my exhausted brain could find, anyway. The three other members of my cell watch me whispering evaporated reasonings, staring into the distance. I can't really recall what language I spoke. Maybe the German of my childhood, or the Polish I studied in Heidelburg, or any of the other languages I learned during my youth all over Europe. I can only tell it wasn't English.

The only indications that allow me to measure time are the guard's talks and their comments about the meals. I realize it's past 3 P.M when they bring us a half-empty kit and I notice how hungry I am ; a couple of centuries later, I understand it's almost 8 P.M when our two guards go to look for some snack at the jail's stewardship. It looks like the two skinnies in the corner can't bear hunger as well as I do. After twenty years wandering on the Eastern roads, once I got my Heidelburg diploma, I had enough time to accustom my stomach to very limited quantities. Indeed no quantities at all.

That's partly for that reason that I emigrated to United States seven years ago... And also because a mustached dictator jeopardized my security. I didn't have any family. Not to my recollection. I don't remember ever having a father, and I didn't saw my mother since I left for Heidelburg with the few pocket money I earned as a notary in my home town. As for my brothers and sisters... I couldn't even recall the correct number.

Of course, all of the plans I had for my future were quite compromised when I first met Jonathan Brewster.

As I didn't have a watch, I couldn't calculate the exact hour ; but it's more or less thirty past eight when the guard opens the cell's door and summons me again. This time with a way softer voice. Almost respectful. I stand up, driven frantic by tiredness and unsuccessful thoughts ; he guides me with some sort of kindness to the visiting room, for the second time of the day.

Expect that this this time no mannered dandy waits for me outside.

The guard simply opens the door and say with a neutral voice "You're free, Mr. Hodgkins. Forgive us for this miscarriage of justice, it won't happen again."

I rise a finger in an attempt to shed light on the current situation, but before I could ask any question, the jail's door closes right behind me.

I'm now free, a few dollars to my name, without any alcohol bottle I could get my hands on, and more lost than ever.


	2. Top-level meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is ! I'm sorry for it taking so long, chapter 3's already almost done. Reviews are always welcome !

When I finally manage to find the bar again by superhuman memory efforts, I see the dandy waiting for me, at the counter, perfectly dressed, and looking almost pleased to see me. I sit down, a bit stumped, at the seat left empty next to him. As I'm about to order a drink, he holds my arm back with a vast smile.  
“I need your full attention, Dr. Einstein.”  
  
In the storm of questions that jostle inside my head it's the one I choose to ask.  
  
“How-how come you know my name ?” I add a few seconds later with an alarmed voice : “Are you from the police ? Please don't take m-”  
  
He bursts in laughter and gently pats my shoulder.  
  
“Not at all, not at all, dear doctor. But I realize that we haven't been introduced yet. My name is...”  
  
He casts a glance around him but all the clients of the bar are talking at a high enough level of decibels to cover his voice.  
  
“Terrence Jones, at your service. I mean, not literally, but it's an expression.”  
  
I am far too abashed to find anything clever to reply.  
  
“Once again I must ask you to forgive me for entrusting you with this pack of drugs and for giving you up to the police last night. It was all a part of my plan, do you understand ? I must reassure you, this time you aren't at risk. And if you've asked yourself why they let you out, I simply brought one of those drunkards here-  
  
He points with a large gesture one of the guys sleeping on the counter.  
  
“-while explaining that it was their stock of drugs and not yours. I must confess it was easier than I thought. They are much more credible criminals than you are. And, I don't know why, but people tend to trust me really easily.”  
  
I quickly inspect his clothes. He's wearing a perfectly ironed suit, of a slightly grey black, and a pair of shoes so polished that one could easily see his reflection in them. Unlike the night before his hair has been put in an elegant side part and covered by a hat. I dream with a bit of bitterness of someone so well-dressed and elegant that the police would take everything he says for granted. Jonathan had other way of persuading people, but... Even if it was sort of my fault (and he liked to remind me of it) he didn't really inspire confidence.  
  
“You may ask yourself why I drugged your drink before entrusting you to the police and then giving you back your freedom the day after. You see, doctor, ever since the notion of power started to exist in the realms of men, the people that have that power have always ensured, all the time, that everyone is aware of how incredibly powerful they are. Because it's the only way for them to protect their power without a war, that would precisely make them risk losing his power. This is fear, doctor. He who possesses power must know that fear will always be his strongest weapon. That's exactly what I wanted to prove to you.”  
  
I raise my eyebrow a bit. Whoever this dandy is, he sure is a character.  
  
“Never heard of me ?” he says with a little look of disappointment. “Jones... The serial killer... “The Jack the Ripper of Brooklyn”... No ?”  
  
Even if deep down I know that it's a terribly bad idea I shake my head – I can't remember having heard anything about him before.  
  
“Ah... Such a pity. I thought I had managed to have a little reputation in town... Barman ! Two whiskeys, please. Take this, doctor, drink. After all, I know that you need it to pull yourself together. You see, I aim for fame, as every decent artist... I, too, would like to make the headlines with more squalid and sadistic murders than this town has ever seen...”  
  
I nod, not really paying attention, focusing more on my drink and the oblivion that it can potentially offer me – I've rarely needed it that much.  
  
“That's why I need you, doctor.”  
  
I choke on my mouthful and start coughing violently. I should have known this would happen... I should have known that it wouldn't take long before my past catches up with me. But a day, still... It's far less than my crazier predictions. I was hoping for a week of peacefulness at least before seeing the color of blood again.  
  
Jones looks almost surprised at my reluctance.  
  
“It doesn't entice you ? But you were with Jonathan Brewster before, weren't you ? That's why I chose you, doctor. I know you have quite a lot of experience and knowledge in this field.  
  
“Jo-Jonathan ? What Jonathan ? I-I don't know at-at-at all what you're talking about” I stutter while giving a faint smile, betrayed by my pleading eyes.  
  
Jones takes out the news clipping that had caught my gaze last night ; an article patiently cut out of the New York Times that says “Jonathan “Karloff” Brewster wreaks havoc in jail (again)”  
A shiver runs through my body and my vision is blurred for a few seconds. Satisfied of his effect Jones leaves the article in front of my eyes a few seconds more before putting it back, precisely folded, in his pocket.  
“It's time for you to make a choice, Dr. Einstein” he whispers with his calm voice. “At every moment I can send you back to jail so you can again meet your former partner – I'm sure he will be really happy to see you again. How much time do you get for drug traffic, more or less ? If I charge you with proofs of your complicity with Jonathan, you may never get out of there. That'd be stupid, wouldn't it ?”  
He reaches into his pocket and takes out very discreetly a perfectly sharpened kitchen knife.  
“This is my hunting weapon. I don't think that I need to explain you how I patiently killed and mutilated each and every one of my victims. That'd be spoiling all the suspense. You'll find out soon enough.”  
His smile, that I first thought gentle, has become predatory in a few seconds. He watches me with the look of a hungry lion who has trapped his prey inescapably and is simply enjoying the view.  
“I need you, Dr. Einstein. But not need in the sense that I couldn't kill without you. I already have a quite precious thing that helps me in this field – I'd rather not tell you more about it for now. Not need in the sense that I couldn't allow myself to kill you if I wanted to.”  
  
The blade of his knife gets threateningly closer, still hidden to everyone by his coat.  
  
“But let's say that I seek revenge. And with you I can have it twice. You see, I am a writer. Deep into my soul, I've always been. I lived with Shakespeare and Byron, and... they gave me a few ideas. What if... What if I started writing too ? I wasn't more stupid than they were. So that's what I did, with all my soul, during five years. It was- It was a masterpiece ! A marvellous play. My editor had accepted it for publishing, and I was waiting for a huge success. A success as fantastic as this play that... that... You should have read it, doctor !”  
  
I lightly squirm on my seat. I still don't have a clue about his point.  
  
“And the day before it was published... I had accepted that a literary critic wrote an article about it. My god, I was so sure of my success ! I had given him carte blanche. And...”  
  
Terrence Jones' gaze turns dark and he suddenly stabs me in the hand.  
  
“Its success wasn't up to its worth.”  
  
I hold back a scream, choked by the fear that someone could notice us. When he takes his knife out of the flesh, there is a small wound, a few millimeters deep. Thank God, it's only shallow. Between two internal screams, I notice that he's as dexterous as he claims to be. His blow was flawless, perfectly perpendicular. He has a surgical precision in the way he handles his knife – and that may be what terrifies me the most.  
  
“Calm down, doctor,” growls Jones, brushing off the blood that stains the knife with his thumb. “Brewster has surely done much worse to you.” As I keep holding my bleeding hand, he sighs; “You're not really cooperative. So, where were we ? Ah yes. So, it didn't really go as I planned. This critic... He wrote the worst article ever on my play. He dragged it through the mire, called it a parody , a ridiculous pastiche, an unctuous romance. I was furious. You see doctor, when you're a genius as I am, you can be... what is the word... touchy. I am very sensitive, doctor. I don't like when people upset me.”  
  
Thoughtful, he keeps brushing off the blood with his fingertips, a dreamy look in the eyes. The pain ceases slowly and the blood stops flooding from the wound little by little.  
  
“So, I thought for a bit. I told myself “Terrence,” (Terrence, it's me, if you had forgotten) “Terrence, so, you have to give your play the recognition it deserves. And for that, you need positive articles. And how do you obtain positive articles ?”  
  
As the pain flows back, there's more room in my thoughts to think about my current situation. Everything gradually links up and I understand his point one second before he tells me about it with a big smile. Johnny's brother, he was-  
  
“You're a clever man, doctor Einstein. You must have reached the same conclusion as I did : I simply had to eliminate as cruelly as possible each and every person that had anything to say about my play ! And that revolting and self-satisfied critic was first on my list. I did some research. How surprised I was when I discovered that he was the brother of this sadistic murderer everyone was looking for ! Bad taste is a family business. Then I-”  
  
I didn't realize how much of a stupid idea it was to interrupt him, or at least not before I started talking, cutting him off in the middle of a sentence.  
  
“Mr-Mr Jones, if you want to use me to.. to find Mortimer... It's not a good idea, you know... I only know him a little – even less than that... Johnny talked a bit about him, that's all, and you know, I won't be able to help you... I-I am very nervous, and...”  
  
Jones gives a faint smile and tightens his hold on the knife.  
  
“Doctor, you don't really understand what's at stake here. I already told you that I can send you into Jonathan's cell with a snap of the fingers. But if meeting again with your former partner doesn't scare you, I have other means of persuasion.  
  
In a flash, he grabs my wrist to prevent me from doing any gesture of the hand. Then, with a small gleam of pleasure in his eyes, he drags the knife's blade on the surface of the cut, lightly twisting the knife in the wound. My throat tightens to the point where I can barely breathe.  
  
“I don't have the knowledge of a doctor in medicine in this field, but I still fancy myself to know a bit more than average, doctor. Don't play with fire. Help me find Mortimer Brewster – and help me make him pay.”


	3. Hampton Street

A beefsteak. A beefsteak with French fries in a peaceful living room. A peaceful living room in a peaceful house. In a peaceful life. Full of peaceful people. Peaceful, sane, not-sadistic-serial-killers people.  
  
Why didn’t I choose a life like that ?  
  
Curled up on a chair in a corner of the room, I watch Terrence Jones’ back while he busies himself on some work I can’t see. I’m not entirely sure that I want to see it, actually. I bury my face in my hands. After graduating from the better med school of the area, I was assured of a glittering future and... I end up locked inside this almost-bunker thing watching a psycho killer right after escaping from another psycho killer. And there I thought that Jonathan was God ́s worst creation when it comes to inhumanly cruel people. Of course, there had to be another one that easily get to his level – in the same town – at the same moment – and, of course, he had to stumble across me as well.  
  
I always knew I was gifted. My teachers had always seen this in me. I had worked hard during all my school years to get into this medical school. With a scalpel in my hand I could do incredible things. It wasn’t only a matter of precision or skills but also of intuition, learning speed, even instinct. The more I learned the more I was eager to learn. I was a brilliant surgeon. I effortlessly performed any operations I was told to do. It was exhilarating. No matter how hard it was, I didn’t seem to ever reach my limits.  
  
Then one day I did.  
  
I was the most reputed surgeon of Heidelberg, by far. A flawless school record, a success rate of almost one hundred percent, a loving wife, I had everything I ever pictured in a successful life. There was one problem, only one problem in my life.  
  
The hospital of my hometown was almost abandoned.  
  
When I came back to Weingarten after brilliant studies in Heidelberg, reality hit me hard. Somehow I had more or less managed to forget my humble origins and the extremely deteriorated state of my hometown. But what I found when I came back was beyond my worst memories. The building where sick people ended up was a hospital in name alone. A bunch of incompetent interns took care of their patients while letting most of them get well by themselves or die. It was a shame. As a developing town we needed a functional hospital of our own, without having to rely on the nearby cities. For the first time of my life, I understood that I needed money – a whole lot of money, more than I could earn in months of work – not for me, but for someone, for something else. I was selfish, but I didn’t forget. I was immature, but I didn’t forget. I was blinded by my power but I didn’t ever forget.  
  
I swear I did everything I could to turn this hospital into a decent one, a place where people actually got better. I spent a few weeks there, working day and night on what had become my number one priority. It was getting better, I knew it. Slowly but steadily.  
  
But still slowly. Too slowly.  
  
One night, a patient arrived, around two in the morning, when all my assistants were sleeping and I was the only one left in charge. He was limping, breathing hard, his hands shaking. I don't even know how he managed to get to the hospital. I didn't understand much from his feverish blabbering. He was Dutch, had been badly sick for the past three years, short on his usual medicine, and on his way to find some in the closest city. At least he was until his hands started shaking too much and he had to stop there before crashing his car in the woods. It looked like some kind of seizure, that none of his doctors had warned him about.  
  
I also got to understand that he was rich. Extremely, ridiculously, absurdly rich.The terrible state of his lungs, that were deteriorating each passing minute, convinced me that I needed to act quick. At the moment it didn't matter to me that I had absolutely no idea how the hell I was going to cure him or even what kind of disease it was. I wouldn't admit it, but I couldn't find one case that explained all his symptoms. I was lost. The man was barely conscious by then and I deeply lacked informations about his medical past. My head was buzzing. I was scared. I wanted to send him away to another hospital where people more experienced than me could find the key of this mess.  
Then he looked at me -it seemed to be his last conscious act- and he offered me money  
to save him.  
  
An extreme, ridiculous, absurd amount of money.  
  
I buried away in some deep hidden place of my memory all the treatises about medical ethics and the incorruptibility we had to show in every circumstances and I accepted the money.  
  
I can't really remember what happened next. I put him on the surgery table immediately, without warning any of my assistants. I took out all my tools, quickly put on plastic gloves. And... I performed surgery on him.  
  
If “surgery” can apply to the chaotic slaughter that resulted.  
  
After only a few minutes, I understood the terrible mistake I was making. This case belonged to doctors far more experienced than me, with my two years of experience. I was barely thirty years old. But when you hear during ten years that you're a genius, that you're the new hope of medicine, and when you graduate with the most impressive grades of the school without any apparent effort, it all goes a bit to your head.  
  
So I kept on.  
  
I had never seen so much blood in my life. It was everywhere, creeping in all my nerves, all my senses. The awful metallic smell was so strong I could almost taste it on my tongue. For hours, I was submerged in a red mist, unable to understand what I was doing, which organ I was butchering and which vein I was cutting open. I couldn't tell how much time I spent in this room. It felt as if I was never going to leave those four walls. The only thing I know is that at some point I raised my dazed eyes toward the window and light was flowing the room. At last, I could see what I had done. The whole room was blood-soaked. My hands were sticky and slimy even through my gloves. I couldn't keep my eyes open. The smell had filled the whole room and got in my clothes and my skin. I felt horribly nauseous, in a _much_ more violent and painful way than after too many days on a pitching boat.  
  
It looked like the patient was dead _– God I really hope he was –_ and, anyway, if there had been even the faintest shadow of a doubt, his organs and blood spread all across the surgery table were enough proof.  
  
I took off my surgery clothes, threw my blood-soaked scalpels in a suitcase with some money and two or three bottles of schnapps and I ran away. For a long time. For a _very_ long time. I, of course, lost my license. For a few months I was even researched by the police, and then it stopped, too. When I first overheard some drunken guy from Wurtenberg talk about “the butcher of Weingarten”, I looked away, in an act of cowardice that I would repeat a lot of times during my life.  
  
I never came back. How could I ? The police had forgotten (had they known that I was a Jew things would probably have gone very differently, considering how things were  
turning out in the year of our Lord 1935 in Germany) but the people from my hometown never would.  
  
The huge knife someone is waving just in front of my eyes brings me back to the present.  
  
I startle and let out a little cry. They're going to be the death of me. The threatening shadow of Jonathan had, after five years, become a part of my daily routine ; but this light in Terrence Jones' eyes, a mix of insanity and happiness, is far more difficult to get used to.  
  
« So then doctor, have you regained your composure ? »  
  
For a second I hesitate between running away screaming and nodding. I choose the latter.  
  
« You better have because I need you, Dr. Einstein. I've done some research about Mortimer Brewster and I've found out that he still lives in Brooklyn with his wife, Mrs. Elaine Brewster, née... » He seems to be making a memory effort to recall her maiden name but quickly shrugs it off. « Anyway. I now need a few indications on his daily life. Where he goes, what are his hobbies, where we can find him during his free time, for example. »  
  
I cast a side glance on the golden watch of my new partner. I must have slept a few hours after arriving to his cave, because it's now nine in the morning.  
  
« I'm- I'm sorry Mr. Jones but I don't know, Jonathan never told me about this, but if there's anything else I can do, I'd- »  
  
My voice weakens suddenly when I see his thin lips widen in a devious grin.  
  
« Please, doctor, call me Terrence. »  
  
It’s going to be a bit hard.  
  
He sighs and start pacing through the room, making large gestures with his hands as he talks.  
  
« You see, doctor, I’m starting to believe I’ve overestimated our dear Jonathan. I was thinking that, after a few years of working with him – I’ve done my research about your partnership, you know- he would have taught you... some common sense. As, for example, to _always_ answer a question that a dangerous man asks you. So it’s either that you have destroyed your brain with alcohol, or I didn’t make myself clear enough. »  
  
A very bad feeling starts growing inside of me. In a second, I understand the feeling that I felt when we first met at the bar, this déjà-vu shiver. At least, I understand. This light in his eyes, _it’s the same as Jonathan’s_. He hides it better, dissimulates it better, but someone like me (who spent so much time seeing it) couldn’t possibly miss it.  
  
« This is my last warning, doctor. You can either cooperate, or what I’ll do to you will make Jonathan’s torture sessions seem like holidays in an all-inclusive hotel. »  
  
And then it's not only the light in his eyes – _mein Gott_ , everything in him feels like habit, and if I have a guardian angel somewhere above, then he's as good at doing his job as I am being sober.  
  
« Jonathan said... He used to say that- his brother has always been very fond of pool. And then... When they were kids, Mortimer would go to see the saloon of Hampton Street, because the best pool hall of all Brooklyn is there, and he would come back home swearing he would go there when he'd be older. » I try as hard as I can to remember something, anything, any memory, any detail to satisfy Mr. Jone- Terrence.  
  
« And the... the... the dress code was very strict, Jonathan said. You need a suit, a hat, and... And a bow tie. That's it. You need a bow tie. I swear that's all, Mr. J- Terrence. I swear – I will help you. Please. I... I can be very useful. »  
  
I silently apologize to poor Mortimer Brewster – if this madman ever finds him, his chances of survival are the ones of a hedgehog crossing 120th street during rush hours.  
  
I stay in a corner of Jones' cave while he does some research, browsing his little notebook full of tickets, maps, cut-out newspaper articles and black markings written in a nearly illegible scrawl. I lose any sense of time and I have no idea how many hours or minutes have gone by when he suddenly says, raising his gaze from the notebook :  
  
« 15 Hampton Street, The Smith&Smithson Club ? »  
  
« That's it, » I answer with a trembling voice, hoping to God it's the right one. There probably aren't hundreds of salons on Hampton Street but I can guess that Terrence Jones is the kind of person you shouldn't upset.  
  
« Follow me, doctor, » he says with a happy voice while checking his reflection one last time. It seems like he found the appropriate clothes somewhere, because he now looks stunning. I had already found him elegant last night, but in a new suit, with a black bow tie and a impeccable hat, he really doesn't look like the psychopath he is. This thing in his eyes is still there, and I can see it, but a normal human being would certainly not.  
  
_(If it's that easy for a serial killer of his ilk to fit in with the crowd, I worry a bit for the future of human kind.)_  
  
No matter how hard I tried to give him information, Terrence Jones doesn't trust me at all. He managed to get a new suit and a bow tie for me as well. It's a bit disorientating for someone like me to be so well-dressed. I feel disguised and uncomfortable. But even worse, I am sober since last night, and it's almost one in the afternoon ; I've rarely spent so much time without at least some kind of alcohol next to me. And last night doesn't count ; I couldn't drink more than a mouthful of whisky because of the, well, surprising things my new partner had to tell me.  
  
My license for a bottle of schnapps !  
  
Then when Jones hides his knife in the front pocket of his jacket and open the door for me to pass before him, my brain reminds me playfully that, funny thing, I lost my license almost ten years ago.  
  
It's always surprising to see how much easier life is when you're elegant, impeccably dressed, eloquent and with the affable arrogance Terrence Jones seems to have been born with. Obviously the false name he uses to enter the club (I stay away from him as he talks, but the quick glimpse of his fake ID I manage to see is extremely realistic) doesn't catch the eye of anyone. After a good five minutes of a witty and highly educated conversation with the doorman, he gets in. And a few seconds later, I do too, this time followed by a slightly scornful look from the doorman. I have to admit that, although I respect every part of the dress code, I do not look like the rest of the gentlemen inside ; my posture is approximative, I am always round-shouldered, observing everything around me with my huge eyes, holding my hands together nervously.  
  
Jones looks like the perfect gentleman ( _looks_ like) but I couldn't look like one to save my life, which could be the case.  
  
Discreetly, he pats my back to push me in front of him and whispers some hushed words in my ear.  
  
« Keep your eyes open, doctor. It would be such a pity if our prey managed to escape now. A pity for you, actually. »  
  
I swallow hard and try as hard as I can to recall the face of Mortimer. Everything linked directly or indirectly to the twenty-four hours that predate the arrest of Jonathan is very blurred in my memory. I remember Mortimer Brewster as a man slightly taller than average, good-looking, well-built, with black, neatly-cut hair and an easy smile. But as this description works for a good half of the people I see in the saloon, I think I'll need some more details.  
  
Jones and I head toward the pool hall. Around ten gentlemen are there, chatting, laughing, and I try as quick as possible to proceed by elimination. Five of them are far too old to be Johnny's brother ; one of them is too small, more or less of my height ; another is blond ; the eighth talks with a high-pitched voice, and the hatless head of the ninth man shows an almost entirely bald head. Then...  
  
« ... you should read the last book I talked about ! A parody of literature. It was ridiculous. I have read some terrible plays, but as bad as that one, n-... »  
  
Mortimer Brewster interrupts his conversation with the blond man when he notices Terrence's piercing eyes staring at him. The murderous look in his eyes has become so terrible that he surely hasn't failed to notice it. When you're the brother of Jonathan Brewster – there are some things that you understand and see that people without a psychopath brother do not.  
  
« Sorry, William, I'll be right back, » he says with a hasty voice while heading toward my new partner. I realize quickly that as soon as he gets close enough he may recognize me ; I pretend to have forgotten something and turn my heels, staying behind the door to follow the exchange.  
  
« Mr. Brewster, » whispers Jones, his left fist (the one with which he handles his knife so _skillfully_ ) shivering with excitement. In order to hide his emotion he puts it in his pocket, inhales deeply and in turn heads for the critic, stretching out his right hand in a gesture of friendship.  
  
Confused, Mortimer Brewster shakes his hand, under the not any less confused eye of the blond gentleman.  
  
« Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Ron C. Jeenster. I absolutely _love_ what you do – can I offer you something at the bar ? I read _all_ of your articles and I wait for each of your new books with the _most_ impatience, I assure you. I'm in _love_ with your style – two whiskeys, please, my good fellow – so, tell me, what are you working on those days ? »  
  
The uninterrupted flow of words coming out of Jones' mouth makes me unable to concentrate. When I finally manage to gather up my thoughts, I move a few feet away to avoid being seen by the two men. I'm fairly certain that my partner will make me know whenever he needs me, and I'd rather avoid some bad initiatives.  
  
Jones has lowered his voice, and now that I'm a bit further away from them their voices are covered by the sound of loud conversations and of billiard balls hitting each other. The only thing I can see is poor Mortimer begin to relax and to speak with a proud tone in his voice, as every decent writer would talk to a fan. His supposed admirer looks at him with a false look of interest while he talks, then shows him the exit and tries to guide him towards the outside. When Mortimer tries to resist and I see this horrible look in Jones' eyes again, I clench my fists nervously and reach out to the pockets of my jacket looking for a bottle of schnapps. _Verflucht_ , when I took my flask just before leaving the cave I hadn't noticed it was utterly empty.  
  
What kind of trouble did I get in this time ?  
  
Regarding of his victim's reluctance, Jones looks at me straight in the eyes with a look on his face that means _if you don't want me to burn your face with an entire jerrycan of gasoline then do something right now_ , and _mein Gott_ do I know that look.  
  
The kind of instinct that I've acquired after a good number of years of collaboration with a serial killer chimes in.  
  
And in order that no one notice that a strange and unknown gentleman is pushing Mortimer Brewster toward the exit against his will, I move a few steps forward – _why does my brain always choose the worst moments, meaning the ones when I'm not dead drunk, to make me act that way, hell if I know_ – and let out a muffled scream.  
  
Theatrically, I take my hands to my heart, take one step, then another, and fall to the ground in the worst pretending ever of a heart attack.  
  
But my second-rate simulation has worked somehow. Everyone's looking at me, and no one's looking at them. Out of the corner of my eye, I know that I have done my work well ; Jones has deadened Mortimer's protestations with his hand and taken him out of the club, where no one inside can hear them. He quickly takes his victim in a back alley and lightly hits his head against a wall – just enough for the poor man to stop fighting.  
  
Just as people start to circle up around me, probably wondering what they're going to do with the corpse, I stand up quickly, mutter apologies and leave before anyone gets to understand anything. Terrence Jones is looking around him, holding the unconscious body with his left arm. There's a pretty odd look on his face. An expression that doesn't look at all like any I've ever seen on him.  
  
A very subtle look of _panic_.  
  
I stare in astonishment, first incredulous, and then frankly terrified as I understand.  
  
« So... What do you propose now, doctor ? »  
  
_Um Gottes willen_. No. He-  
  
He didn't have any plan ?  
  
What an imbecile I've been to believe that with his distinguished manners he would be any more precise and thoughtful than Johnny. He's the same, they're all the same, how could I not notice it before ? You do not become a serial killer and you do not stab your allies in the hand when you have at least a dash of common sense.  
  
This whole plan was dubious and Jones has been improvising his way out of the club, but now...  
  
_We're goners._  
  
One of the doormen of the salon must have reached for the telephone because police sirens start ringing in the neighborhood. I mutter a few prayers in German while the three of us get deeper into the alley, hoping the police won't see us. We can't do this forever ; at the other end of the alley lies a large quay full of people.  
  
« You really didn't have _any_ idea of what you'd do once Brewster out of the saloon ? » I whine.  
  
« Shut up, doctor » he growls, and all his elegance, all his distinction seems to be falling apart. My hands are shaking. I close my eyes and bite my bottom lip when I hear Mortimer's head meeting the wall to calm him down once again.  
  
Somehow, I had convinced myself that the difference between Terrence Jones and Jonathan Brewster lay in the contrast between the delicacy of the first one and the savagery of the latter ; but at last, I understand how wrong I was.  
  
Johnny's gifted. He's insane, cruel, devious, sadistic, but definitely gifted. For someone to escape policemen from the whole world during five long years without giving any decent thought to it, there is undeniably talent in this instinctive way of killing. And now, when I see this parody of a criminal mind getting stuck this easily, I know for a fact that _he_ will never be _that_ gifted.  
  
On tiptoes, while Jones frets and worries, I try to escape slowly, hoping that I could get into the crowd before he notices me. It would be relatively easy to hide there... Until I hear the ticking of Jones' gun a few inches away from my hear.  
  
No need to turn around to know that my escaping attempt has failed.  
  
« You're not going anywhere, doctor » he whispers, with an oddly sweet voice, as if he had suddenly gotten his phlegmatic calm back.  
  
Still aiming at my forehead with his weapon, he carries Mortimer Brewster with him towards a boat structure, where we'd be able to reach his cave once again.  
  
Until another ticking sound makes itself heard, behind us. Quickly followed by four more.  
  
« Freeze, gentlemen, » says the loud voice of a man I can't see. But I think I've already heard it among the policemen that arrested Johnny.  
  
Either the police have seriously won in efficiency since the times when Johnny escaped them easily, I think distractedly, or I've really made a mistake by following a criminal that easy to catch.  
  
I look at him. He's dropped Mortimer on the floor, and his face is distorted by rage and defeat.  
  
The first policeman takes a few steps towards us, slowly, holding his gun with both hands. But Jones stands still. There isn't anything in his eyes. No murderous glimpse. Nothing. Maybe he's not a genius criminal mind but he can't let them arrest him so easily. The crowd's only a few meters away. He can't – and then everything falls apart.  
  
« CASTER ! »  
  
It's Jones that has screamed. In a second he reaches for an unconscious Mortimer and throws him forward violently. The body rolls away for a few meters then stops. The policemen has mastered Jones an instant after, and he is forced to stop fighting. Another policeman puts him in the handcuffs to help his coworker. The two policemen left head towards me.  
  
I don't even have to think.  
  
Running away has become second nature. If there's one thing I'm good at, apart from butchering people's faces, it's escaping in the most discreet and efficient way possible. In a few seconds I'm already a few feet away from the crowd, while Jones gives enough worry to the policemen. Just before hitting anyone, I suddenly turn right and blend in the crowd. As I always have.  
  
I look over my shoulder while I quickly walk away ; the two officers look around without finding me, and the blond man from the saloon is leaning on Mortimer's still unconscious body.  
  
And none of them follow me.  



	4. Parole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !SPOILER / TRIGGER WARNINGS!
> 
> There's a pretty graphic scene of someone being beaten up in this chapter. It's not very long but it's really described.

Winter is impending in Brooklyn. A winter which promises to be snowless. Even though every person I walk across in the streets seems to be putting on more and more clothes as temperature drops, I still settle for my usual suit. The winter in Germany alone was far colder than this. But winter at the russo-polish frontier – the farthest I've reached in the East during my wandering - oh, boy... The coldest wind in Brooklyn is a summer breeze in comparison.  
So, no. I'm not cold.  
The hotel owner was growing suspicious, so I had to find another residence. It doesn't take long, really, contrary to what all those panicking about the property crisis might say ; as long as you have absolutely _no_ standards in terms of basic hygiene and safety, it's pretty easy to find an apartment. I found my nest only a few days after Jones' arrest. It's located in an anonymous back alley in Brooklyn, in a place where no one would ever look for me, or for anyone, for that matter. No one comes here, except the residents ; and even this last category can sum up to maybe five or six people, all bums or outcasts, looking sleazy and shifty, resonating with this seady place. The place itself is actually a quite deteriorated boarding house, affordable for a small amount of money, just enough for a man like me. The window is broken and lets the wind blow in, and I've almost broken it half a dozen times just by leaning on it for a few seconds. And to think that we're on the third floor. I'd better be careful if I want to stay alive (which is not a given).

My sobriety days have ended at the same time as my partnership with Terrence Jones. Johnny used to lecture me on the importance of handling oneself without a schnaps bottle - as if he was one to talk about mental and physical health. Now that I don't have anyone on my back, I drink all I can. Which turns out to be quite a lot. But even with it, I can't sleep well. I don't know if it's fear or sadness or remorse or all three of them, but my heavy lids blink in the vacuum, at night, and I can't breathe, and then suddenly I'm too cold to sleep... Which definitely didn't happen to me at the russo-polish frontier, or, at least, not like this. Not this kind of cold.

  
Of course, after a few days like this, my schnaps stock has started to dwindle some. I need to buy some more. It's quite a serious problem, actually. The money issue. Especially these days. I only have enough dollars to survive a week or two. Johnny often kept big amounts of money in cash, he didn't trust banks, and after all considering how many of them he had robbed he may have been right. But I'm in no position to steal from someone or to rob a bank, obviously, so all I can do is lay there, watching the money in my pockets evaporating. I really have learned nothing in five years, it is terribly frustrating. I thought I was drowning by Jonathan's side, but truth is I actually was on a lifeboat ; now is when I really have to swim to stay at the surface, now that he's not here to hold onto.

  
" _\- Who are you ?_  
_\- My name doesn't matter, Dr. Einstein._  
_\- Keep your hands off me !_  
_\- No one talks to me like that, doctor._  
_\- I'm not no one and I want-_  
_\- I don't care what you want. I need you to perform surgery on my face and you will help me._  
_\- Surg- I_ know _you. You're that man from the news ! Your grandfather, the lecturer that taught the 2d and 3d years - he's gone missing - I saw you-  
_\- If you know me then why do you even hesitate in following me ? I've seen you in dissections, doctor. I__ know _ _you.  
_\- What do you- I would never obey a crimin-___  
_\- I wouldn't be so sure about that, dear doctor. And don't overestimate your resilience._  
_\- What ? You- monster, you freak-_  
_\- Just call me Jonathan."_  
  
I reach for my surgery case to take out my wallet and my keys - but finally settle on taking the whole case with me. I can't think straight when I haven't drunk, nor make good decisions, nor look for keys. I exit the apartment, close the door and sigh. It's already late at night. The building is silent, save for two women screaming at each other on third floor. Outside, almost all the lights are out. I catch a glimpse of the shape of my shadow when walking past a street lamp. Won't be easy finding a store open.

  
" _\- Dr. Einstein ?_  
_\- Yes, Br-Brewster ?_  
_\- Don't call me that._  
_\- I'm so-sorry, I'm juste a little n-nervous..._  
_\- I told you you shouldn't overestimate your resilience. Still, it took you an entire three days to understand. It's worth some respect. Here, take this._  
_\- Schnaps ? I mean, I don't drin-_  
_The neck of the bottle dives into my throat and a fair amount of alcohol drops in my stomach. Jonathan Brewster only takes the neck out of my mouth when the last drop has left the bottle. Seven long seconds go by before I can safely inhale again, and it takes three more for my stomach to go back to his place. Mein Gott, before this forced savoring, I had never drunk more than a few glasses at a time, and it was just after the Dutch incident._  
_\- My-my throat... It burns...  
_\- Better get used to it, doctor. It might not be the last time.__  
_Somehow, in some remote part of my organism, something settles. Schnaps runs in my veins I feel it, and the pain doesn't seem so painful anymore, the sleep deprivation not so tiring. I see straight. I feel better."_

  
A sound of broken bones makes itself heard on my right and brings me back to reality.  
In some back-alley a few meters away from my flat, three men are currently punching and kicking with the most violence a fourth one, who's trying as hard as he can to protect his vital points. He's not shouting – barely trying to survive. S _cheiße,_ I hadn't seen this much blood since my last operation with Jonathan. And considering that it's a rather unpleasant memory, I don't really want to get any closer to this slaughter. I look around quickly to check if anyone's watching. (A habit I've gained from my years with Jonathan ; being always attentive, anxious, always ensuring that no one is around. And I keep on doing so, even when I've done nothing wrong, like tonight. Old habits die hard.) But onight the street is empty, save for those three bullies and this excuse of a human body they're meticulously destroying. It's a miracle that they haven't heard me ; then again, given how focused they seem to be on their task, it's kind of understandable that they're not paying attention to me. I won't blame them for it, either.

I stay away and remain silent.

  
The three men finally go away, leaving their victim behind, after having ensured that he does now look like a human slop.  
It takes me a few seconds to get over my repugnance and be able to walk towards the corp- _person_. Surprisingly enough, he's still alive. Well... He's breathing. At least I think so.  
“Calm down” I whisper, voice as sweet as possible. His brown eyes lay on me. He looks like a frightened, wounded animal. With a lot of effort, he gets to his feet, desperately holding on the brick wall, in order to stand up. He's shaking so much and he's lost so much blood that I don't know how he manages to do so. When he opens his mouth, his voice is hoarse, weak, husky.  
“Who are you ?”  
“I'm a doctor” I answer, holding my surgical case in my hand. In a flash my voice is back to what it was during my glory time in Heidelberg. “You shouldn't move.”  
When he hears “doctor” his eyes open as much as his bruised lids allow him to – bruised and colored of shades of blue.  
“Doctor... My... my name... Cr-.. Please... Help...”

  
Then he finally stops talking nonsense, staggers and passes out.

*  
**

For the first time in ten years I look at my blood-soaked hands with a smile of satisfaction. My tools lay on the ground, covered in hemoglobin. The moon is already going down in the sky ; yet dawn isn't quite here yet. I'm alone.  
I've scarcely ever felt this calm.  
I couldn't decently bring a bleeding body back to my apartment without getting any looks from the owner of the building, and I couldn't call the cops, considering they may still be looking for me. I could have left it there and ran away as I did so many times – but I didn't. I took him to some dead-end a few meters away where I laid his unconscious body. My hands were acting on their own.  
All I had to do was follow the medical conscience that was engraved in me after ten years studying medicine. I knew perfectly which tool I had to use, which incision I had to make. Unconsciously, I was whispering hushed words in German the whole time, trying to calm him down, and it seems effective, to some extent. He had a very high fever, severe burns on his torso, a lot of bad bruises all over his body and a few knife cuts that caused the haemorrhage. His right lid and his lips were severely swollen.  
A miracle was impossible, considering the terrible conditions I had to operate in ; I had neither adequate tools nor an assistant, and couldn't even find a clean surface to work on ; but I did my best.  
It must be around four in the morning. I do not have any watch. I'm only relying on the position of the moon, the total absence of people in the streets and the "closed" sign on every bar in my surroundings. My patient isn't there. He must have gone home. After finishing the operation, I must have fallen asleep for a few seconds, or minutes, or hours, because now I sit alone in the dead-end. I'm happy to have left him my address on a piece of paper before falling asleep, just in case he'd want to contact me ; surely he must have taken it because now there is no piece of paper around.  
The weather's cold, but not freezing. I had forgotten how good it feels to just sit and stop thinking.  
Little by little the sun rises, stretching lazily his rays across the sky. The weather has warmed a little bit. I turn up the collar of my overcoat and start getting my tools back in the case.

The whole walk back to my apartment is silent, almost unreal. I only come back to my senses when I fall on my bed, having arrived to the small hovel I call home.  
Then I realize that I've forgotten the schnaps.  
And just when I'm about to open the door to go buy myself some bottles, I stop myself. Well...  
After all, the alcohol can wait.

*  
**

I've settled in some kind of routine ever since my improvised operation.

I keep on doing some stupid odd jobs just for the money (and because no one asks question there). It's no big deal ; as long as I get paid and don't have to deal with customers, everything is fine. I'm used to all this, having been on the road for so long. What I'm saying is that you get used to getting used to things. Even this apartment ; under a certain light, at very specific moments, it could almost begin to smell like home.

Every time someone asks my name, I go for “Hodgkins” and most of the time no one cares enough to ask for more. What could they ask for, really ? In a city where almost three millions immigrants roam the streets and struggle, there's nothing unusual about broken English (or limbs, for that matter ; people get beaten up all around the city, even when no doctors are around to step in). I blend in. I blend in like I always have.  
But really, I'm not planning on staying more than one or two weeks. I feed myself the best I can, living out of cheap food – you can't really find anything better here – and a disproportionate amount of alcohol. to step in). I blend in. I blend in like I always have.  
Whenever I have some free time - meaning whenever I'm not working, sleeping or knocking down glass after glass - I imagine which kind of cruel, twisted, excruciating pain Jones will inflict on me whenever he finds me. Because one day he's going to break out of jail, that's a given – then he will find me – red-shot eyes, blood-thirsty beast, turned insaner and madder and Joneser by incarceration – and usually I don't even want to think about what follows so I pour myself another drink.

I try to keep myself as informed as possible. The newspaper I usually buy is nothing more than a useless rag, but I'm fairly confident that, in the case a renowned serial killer broke out, they would at least write a column or two about it. Every day I browse the front page and the index, looking for any headlines mentioning jails, inmates, jailbreaks, etc. Nothing. Day after day, I look for... something, and I can count myself lucky if the headlines are anything else than some details about the mayor's last affair or a biography of whoever won the last soccer tournament.

So I keep on living without the slightest idea of what I'll do when I'll have to leave Brooklyn.

One morning, nine or ten days after the "operation", an article does actually catch my eye. It's a first. Here I was, sitting on a bench in a park, a hot coffee growing colder by my side because of the early December air, reading the news before work, as usual ; except this time the word "jail" is distinctly written in the headlines. A shiver runs through my spine. I'm almost too anxious to read it. I have to force myself to do so, and it takes all of the  strength and self-confidence I'd managed to gather lately.

  
_#_  
_WHEN YOU PLAY WITH MATCHES_  
_by Spencer Gallahan_  
_[...] The prisoners of the Brooklyn House of Detention have learnt it the hard way last night, during a tragic incident that cost the lives of four inmates. According to various witnesses, it started at 3:30 A.M, while most prisoners were sound asleep in their respective cells. A box of matches happened to fall in the hands of Gordon Hinsborough, a pyromaniac under detention. [Those matches had probably been lost by a prison warden whose name was not communicated]. A few minutes later, another guard noticed the smoke coming out of the building across from his ; but in the time it took him to get there, the fire had already taken. The five inmates of this cell were locked inside. A courageous warden has tried to free them, but his way was blocked by the toxic smokes that escaped from the fire, and he had to beat a retreat. When the firemen arrived, the cell had already turned to ashes, and all five of the prisoners had lost their lives. Fortunately, the fire did not extend to the other cells. The body of Leigh Lester, another resident of the cell, somehow resisted to fire ; the other four were much more severely affected, although at different degrees. Among the victims of this tragic incident were Hinsborough himself, Archie Crow, Colin “Ripper” Sherman and the infamous Jonathan Brewster whose face identical to Boris Karloff's didn't remain intac-[...]_  
_#_

  
My heart drops to my knees. I am unable to read throught the rest of the column.  
I tell myself that my ordeal is over and that now I just have to worry about one psycho killer on my foosteps and not two. I am - I am genuinely relieved. I really am. Yet it doesn't stop my vision field from getting blurred, it doesn't make the feeling of sickness in my ribcage go away. I feel ill. Physically ill. Overwhelmed. It's stupid, of course it is, but when you've just spent five years living in the exclusive company of one person – you must feel something, something strong, right, towards them ? Something, even if it's hate, or fear, or anger, or anguish ? And to feel destroyed and lost when they're gone ? It's normal, isn't it ? Isn't it ?

It wasn't only about - this... It was also about the very few times (and I can count them on the fingers of my hands) when Jonathan wasn't _really_ Jonathan anymore (or at least not the sadistic and cruel killer everyone knew) and he became another Jonathan, a sweeter, calmer, kinder Jonathan. He was fickle and those moments rarely lasted more than a couple of hours, but those nights were worth more than anything to me.  
Maybe to Johnny too.  
I read the article a second time, a third time, until my final doubts are gone for good. Jonathan Brewster is dead, and five years of my life have died with him.

Everything seems a bit vain now, meaningless, now that these years are gone. I must try to live, try to build myself a sense of self out of this mess. How ? Resume my carreer as a surgeon ? Without a license ? Maybe. It seems highly unlikely. What is certain right now is that I don't want to have any business in people dying anymore. A surgeon... Me. A surgeon. It doesn't sound as weird as I thought it would. And, after all, I certainly would have followed that path, had I not broken, in one night, every single oath I had ever taken as a doctor. I would have become a brilliant surgeon and would have remained the pretentious arrogant kid I was. Heidelberg... I still can see vague pictures of me back then, if I close my eyes hard enough, but they are blurred and yellowed, just like old photographs that no one looks at anymore.  
Because, somewhere along the road, back then... I ran across Jonathan Brewster.

It's still hard to believe that he's dead. This thought swirls in my head as I go back to my apartment, walking slow, head down. Oddly, I feel drunk ; even though I haven't drank anything today, and even though I don't feel the urge to drink anything, anything strong and soothing, just to forget about it all, contrairiwise to my usual state of mind. I feel drunk, and I can neither walk nor think straight. _None of this is real, because none of this can possibly be real_. The thought is crawling inside me slowly, as realization dawns on me, and yes, it's still hard to believe that he's dead. Dead and gone.

  
_Just as it was always hard to believe that someone like him could ever be alive._


	5. Cutting edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait ! Only two more chapters to go.

A few days later, the telephone suddenly rings, making itself heard in the whole flat. I jerk awake in my bed, and the realization dawns on me that I can't remember the last time I woke up in a place I actually remembered going to sleep at. I guess it is a sign of Everything Getting Better, maybe. I still don't dream, though, can't dream. I used to, during the Jonathan era. Erratically, sure, and it didn't happen much, but some nights I would wake up at three A.M from a nightmare and find Johnny's sleeping presence next to me _somehow_ reassuring, or use the sweet remaining of a dream from the night before to get through a particularly difficult day. It's 10 A.M now, and someone is calling. I stand laboriously and reach for the handset.

“Doctor, my friend just had a seizure... He doesn't move... Please, you live just next door... Can I bring him to you ? Please !”

The panicked voice stays silent for a few seconds, waiting for me to answer. How did- is it the guy I operated on ? Or someone he gave my number to ? The voice doesn't seem familiar. I'm fairly sure this isn't the guy from the back alley. Then again, it might be him. I am not one for recognizing voices.

So my number is being passed on among random citizens of New York. Sure. Right. I don't know if it's a good thing or not. Of course, I'd like to earn a living without having to kill (or assist in killing, which is the same) dozens of people, but... If it's so easy to contact me then the police could do it too, couldn't they ? What proof do I have that it's not a fink I'm talking to ? I can't let him in.

My memory betrays me again, except this time I remember too much instead of too little, and there's no alcohol to blame it on. Recollection of past operations, past nights, past dead bodies on the operating table. I try as hard to chase them out before getting nauseous. I can't let him in, but I want to.

“Co-come, if you want” I stutter with my sweetest, most confident tone. I'm still doubtful about this. I have a bad feeling.

I spend the next five minutes pacing through my room, wanting to slam this skull of mine against the door. What good could possibly come out of this mess ? Haven't five years by _his_ side taught me anything ? Sadly, when I've finally changed my mind and decided to not help anyone and leave town as soon as possible, someone's already knocking on the door.

I've cleared the place a bit ; pushed the rare furnitures in some corner of the living room, and installed a table with two chairs next to it, in case the patient needs it. During my feverish preparatives, in spite of all the doubts and fear running through my head, I couldn't help but feel a bit of joy, just to think that I was going to cure someone again, that these hands would heal, after all this time ; and, _mein Gott,_ to think that for the first time in _years_ I was going to take a decision on my own. Ever since I met Jonathan, ever since it all started, I've had a heavy feeling on my chest, a sensation of uneasiness even when everything was fine. It hasn't left me since. But today, for the first time, that feeling is _just slightly_ lighter.

There's even the shadow of a smile on my face when I reach for the doorknob. I've almost managed to forget psychopaths, runaways and fear _,_ almost. All that matters now is to help the person behind that door. All that matters is that I'll never be forced to kill someone ever again, never ever, and that for now on I'm free.

  
  


“Hello, doctor.” says Terrence Jones.

  
  


My body freezes. My blood stops flowing through my veins, my lungs stop breathing in and out, my heart stops beating. It may be in my knees now, for all I care. I'm thinking a million things at a time and I'm unable to understand clearly any of them.

 _Fick die Henne_ , I'm so dead.

“Please don't faint yet, I need you for the final part of my plan.” He slams the door open and comes in cheerfully. Only then do I notice that he's not alone ; in addition to Jones, two men are standing in the door frame. One of them, all square-jawed and empty-eyed, is the blond gentleman I saw in the saloon a few weeks ago, the one that leaned on his unconscious friend's body in the alley, seemingly taking care of a passed-out Mortimer, after Jones' arrest. And the second one is him, dear old Mortimer Brewster in the flesh, held captive by the blond guy's tightening grip. His hands are attached behind his back with a heavy rope and a piece of fabric is stuffed into his mouth to prevent him from screaming. _I've seen all this before with a different psychopath,_ I think distractfully.  The three of them together form quite a picture. _Ach je_ , the tenants of the building should thank me, they sure don't see such a baroque situation every day. Just because _I_ do doesn't mean everyone does.

But then I look into Mortimer's eyes and God do they reflect fear, do they implore me to help him, _please_. No offense, but my lot isn't really better than his right now. I can't help but notice how  bad he looks, with heavy, wrinkled, violet eyebags, so clear-cut they look like two black eyes. That's strange. He didn't look so tired when I saw him in the saloon. He must have slept poorly during the last two weeks-

“Here, boss” whispers the blond guy while violently pushing his prisoner towards Jones.

Then the pieces click, and I understand, and I look successively at Jones, then at Mortimer, then at the blond man, and again at Jones who seems to have shifted his attention towards me.

“This is-” I whisper before being cut off by Jones.

“William Craster, my right-hand-man. I think I mentioned him to you before. He played an... _integral_ role in my plan. William, please.”

Caster seems to wake up to the sound of his boss' voice, and pushes poor Mortimer on a chair. It requires no great effort. The critic seems so exhausted that he barely resists. Caster ties his hands with a solid rope to the armrest of the chair, then does the same with his feet. Once his victim is unable to make the slightest move, he gets up and stands next to the chair, waiting for new orders.

“William is my most loyal man. His help has been very precious to me – he kept Mr. Brewster _safe_ while I was fixing some details with the justice of our country.”

For the umpteenth time since I know Jones, I think to myself that _I should have known_ _better_ _._ I saw seen a gentleman, member of a club, leaning worriedly on his friend, and didn't think twice about it. In my defence, Caster's aura is deeply different from Jones' or Jonathan's. Whichever move he makes is lifeless – it's almost as if his boss' orders alone allow him to be in motion. He is soulless, embodying the sheerest expression of obedience I've ever seen. Still. _I should have known better._

Pacing the room with affected, dandy-like steps, my  _partner_ walks closer to the chair where his prisoner sits still. I step back. Instinctively. A desperate attempt to make him forget my presence. To put as much distance as possible between this monster, his criminal impulses, and me. But the back of my knees hit the table and I find myself trapped, cornered.

O  sweet, insufferable terror of being thrown and locked down in a pit with a hungry beast. Jones  _is_ looking at me right now with those starving-tiger eyes. As if  he was afraid that this reality would shatter if he moved too swiftly, he slows down, brushing his victim's cheek with his fingertips. A sick, twisted smile distorts his face.

“My gun, William, if you please.” His blue irises do not leave Mortimer's ones, even for a second. Caster hands him his revolver. Time stands still. Jones' fingers wrap around it. He takes it in hand – admires the cylinder, grazes the trigger, skims the barrel, toys with the grip ; gently at first, then more firmly. Then he points the gun right between Mortimer's eyes. He aims, very, very precisely, as if he was afraid he'd miss from a few inches away.

When the shot fires, the critic's mouth lets out a silent scream.

Caster brings his hands to his chest. For the first time, I see a genuine expression in his eyes : disbelief. But he doesn't have the time to ponder. The large bloodstain on his chest grows wider, wider, until his legs let him down. And he falls to the ground like a puppet. It's risible, this whole situation, otherworldly, absurd, it is. But no one is laughing.

“I'm sorry, William,” says Jones, slightly disgusted by the sight of blood on his polished shoes. “Surely you will understand that I couldn't kill our dear Mortimer right away. If anything it's you who need to die, you who know so much. That pains me, William. And very much so.”

He's never seemed so full of himself. For the first time since I've met Jones, I am truly, wholly, deeply _afraid_ of him. He scared me, sure, but never like that, never like Joh- Never. And there we are, and he's just killed his right-hand-man and my heart won't stop slamming against my chest. I am terrified. I am petrified.

“Now come your fifteen minutes of fame, doctor.” Jones kicks Caster's frozen face and keeps on : “I told you before, you are in no way essential in my plan. If anything you have been an obstacle thus far. Your refusal, your escape... Yet here you are, doctor, by my side, like I knew you would be. Here I am. And there he is, our guinea pig.”

He stares at Mortimer for a few seconds, then suddenly aims his gun at my forehead again. If Caster's first, who can come second, if not me ? Terror rises, rises in my chest, and I feel like I've forgotten how to breathe. I step forward, open my surgical case, clumsier than ever. _Gott im Himmel_ won't this shaking ever stop ?

Mortimer bites on his gag and fights against the ropes which tie him closely to his chair. It barely moves, despite his effort.

“You are just like them, Mr. Brewter” whispers Jones with a sick voice. “You don't believe in fate. You walk around thinking you can thwart its plans – thinking you can thwart _my plans,_ Mr. Brewster, now, isn't that hilarious ? _Everything_ went according to plan. The police, me being arrested, and my late second-in-command, William – rest in peace – pouncing on you, feigning surprise to perfection, in order to bring you somewhere safe. The police, too, thought they'd successfully arrested me, and by this mean, contributed to the plan as well. I needed time, I needed time so the police wouldn't make the connection with your late brother's arrest, and some time, too, for you to be in the right state of health.”

It is somehow surreal, like the B movies they always advertise at the movie theater two streets from here, the villain talking and talking and talking and everyone just sits there listening to them. It is surreal and upsetting but there's _nothing_ I can do except listen to him, if I want to stick to that one little chance of survival I've been vying for. So I listen, making myself as small as it is humanly possible without surgical help, but it is no use ; Jones suddenly turns his face towards me, grinning as always.

“And you, _you,_ doctor, needed some time by yourself. A few weeks on vacation was all you needed to trust your abilities again, I knew that. You trusted yourself, dr. Einstein, you thought you could save people. Still haven't understood, have you ? You're not crafted for this. For healing. Your hands are made to destroy, to break, to inflict pain on others. Trust Jonathan to surround himself with people of your kind. He knew all of it, and put it to good use.”

My ex-partner's name weaves through my spine. Even though no one in their right mind could possibly argue that any of those psychopaths are good for my health, a tiny, small voice, deep inside me, tells me that, without any logical basis, I felt safer by Jonathan's side.

“This time I craved, it was the police that gave it to me. You of all people should have known better, doctor – I told you a cell's walls are nothing but air to me. A bit more than a week, in order for me to find a scapegoat and a plausible explanation for this mess – and there I was, free as a bird.”

Next thing I know Jones is right next to me (and any amount of _closeness_ to Terrence Jones is _too close_ ), grabbing my collar and slamming me against the wall. This is imbalance, kilometers away from the composure I've always seen in him. Perturbedness, turbulence, noise. Unjoneslike, really ; much more Jonathan-fashioned, if you ask me.

“I _always_ have a plan, doctor. Things do not happen without my say so.” He hisses soft and threatening. “Even leading you to believe that I didn't know what to do, once our dear critic in our hands, was part of it all.”

Somehow he doesn't come across as dangerous as he'd like to pretend. Evidence of this comes from the fact that he hasn't broken any of my limbs yet, which could almost amount to _courtesy_.

“Do not underestimate me _ever_ again.”

He throws me to the ground and I let in uneven, short breathes, my lungs almost shaped now for this kind of erratic breathing. Jones has regained his poise and he paces around the room, all dandy-like in his new suit, and he just doesn't seem to be part of this world.

“Enough chit-chat, friends of mine... I have reasons to believe our Brewster is starting to grow impatient. Time to honor him.”

I guess this is the moment I am supposed to chime in. All I manage to do is to open my surgical case with slow, clumsy gestures, but well... A man does what he can. I did this countless times with Jonathan. Of course, each time, I was coerced into it – but still, I did it. And professionally, if you please.

Mortimer looks up at me. His eyes are more begging than any other victim of Jonathan. I lift my scalpel.

My partner looks at me. His blue irises are shining alright, but all I see is a spark, a flicker, a flash, at most ; Johnny had eyes like torches, like pyres, whenever he was hunting. My hands are unable to move. I look at them disbelievingly, I try to, I really do ; but I can't. I don't want to obey to Jones.

As soon as he notices that I'm standing still, his teeth clench and anger flinches in his eyes. I know it – I know that if I don't make a move he's going to kill me – just like Johnny would have killed me, had I not obeyed fast enough – but with Jonathan everything was _different_.

Jones inhales and speaks slowly, as a way to hide how close to imploding he is. His tone alternates between hissing and growling, which does not help lighten the mood of the room, or makes anyone comfortable. “This is the final warning, dr. Einstein. You can have a drink if that's what you need in order to get down to work. But I want you to be operational now.”

A moment of silence. Everything stands still. Me, motionless ; Mortimer, face painted with disbelief ; Jones, full to bursting with a boiling wrath.

“Why does...” His fists clench. “Why does the entire world refuse to obey me ?”

And his voice is the one of a madman on the last words. Danger ; warning flash lights ; Jones has become terrifying once again. I know insanity when I see it and I _do_ see it, right here, in his whole body. I protect my face with my arms in a ridiculous attempt at safety ; but anyway, it is not me Jones is aiming at. Instead, he grabs a scalpel in my surgical case and fiercely stabs it in Mortimer's right eye.

My eyes close. I wait for sprays of blood to repaint my clothes.

Why isn't there any ?

Why am I hearing a gunshot in the distance ?

And another, and another, getting closer. Like a tune.

Someone is screaming. Another one opens the door, then voices – no, just one voice – and I finally open up my eyes.

  
  


Only five seconds or so have passed (I really couldn't tell, I tend to lose any perception of time in situations like this – coping mechanism, one could call it) and literally all the tables in the room have turned. Gunpowder smoke all over the room, hot and stinging. Acrid smell of blood. First I believe it is Mortimer's (and my mind doesn't fail to fill itself with pictures of punctured eyes, of bleeding eyesockets, _I've seen all this before_ ), but he still has both his eyes, and uses them to look around as much as he can, in a desperate attempt to understand what happened. He still can't move, due to the tight ropes around each of his articulation. To me, it seems as if he was so close to losing this useful little thing of a right eye that he wants to make up for all the years of not appreciating it enough. He _does_ appreciate them now, I can see it, in the way he looks at every possible angle, waiting for an answer. No, the blood whose smell invades my nostrils in an oh-so-familiar way isn't Mortimer's.

It's Jones'. Jones who is holding his wounded, bleeding hand, Jones whimpering against the wall, and the scalpel he was holding ten seconds ago now lies meters away from him.

_Wer hat geschossen ?_

It is by all accounts the man that stands in the door frame, and that now walks towards me in a slow pace, and I know for a fact that this man is not a police officer. I know this pace, I know this voice and this specific tone he uses with no one but me.

« Pull yourself together, doctor. »


	6. Downwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all ! Next chapter is the last one, it's rather short, so it's coming soon. It's kind of an explanatory chapter... Anyway, feel free to correct any spelling mistakes in the chapter ! No one betas it anymore so it's a bit messy

It's not any difficult to see through Jonathan Brewster, once you get to know him well. He does whatever the hell he wants, kills when he needs to, kills when he's hungry, when they're hounding him down, when he's in a bad mood or when someone -anyone, really- mentions how astonishingly alike he and a famous American horror movies actor whose name starts with Boris and ends with Karloff are.

I don't mean to brag, but I am, without the shadow of a doubt, the person who best gets him in this lowly world (apart, perhaps, from his brother Mortimer). A couple of times, he's said to me some things he most likely never told anyone, some extremely, deeply private things, and I felt very proud to be privy to those things. Things that were not about murder, about pain, about anger, painting a whole another picture, as if, _somehow_ , Jonathan still existed when he wasn't burning.

He didn't talk much, sure. But he was the kind of man you couldn't help but feel fascinated by when he did.

Truth be told, I never really understood why he seemed to trust me. A very Jonathanian kind of trust, though, meaning it was faulty, to say the least ; once or twice he got close to killing me, on days when he suspected I was planning to assassinate him in his sleep. (He was a rather suspect suspicious man). Yet...

Yet, from times to times, when I was done performing a particularly complex surgery, for instance, he would stand in front of the mirror, domesticating this new face of his, and then suddenly he would surround my body with his arms in something that could almost pass for an embrace. Almost. It was brutal, as if he didn't know how to hold onto something without destroying it, as if he didn't know of any interactions with another human body that didn't involve pain. People cannot change their nature. He didn't speak, didn't say a word, and a second later he was gone, already hounding down someone else, on the move for whichever prey we were chasing at the time. What I felt in those moments isn't plain black or white – nothing with him really was. Like being so surrounded by danger that anything feels like protection. Like gauche, cold grazes, like being alone together.

Even though I knew him at least as well as he knew me – which is to say, quite a lot, because Johnny got to know me disturbingly fast and disturbingly well – there were still moments of surprise. He's taught me, and I made sure to remember it, that there is no way in Hell you can predict someone's next move just by knowing the things they've done. I knew (and still know) more of his past than Mortimer probably ever will (not like the two brothers really want to know each other any better). And still, he always manages to astound me. Jonathan is... Jonathan is a driverless car, rolling full speed towards the edge of a cliff. His orbit changes drastically at every small stone he runs across. His moves are quick, erratic, haphazard, and the only thing that awaits him at the end of the road is sheer and absolute self-destruction.

That's exactly the reason why I don't have the slightest idea of what the holy mackerel he is doing here in my Brooklyn apartment, _blas mir einen._ And furthermore, he's holding a freshly-used revolver in his hand – and my Johnny just _hates_ how impersonal firearms are. This is surreal.

Once he's finally able to look away from his bleeding hand, Jones turns around and faces Jonathan, staring at him in the eyes like he's just heard the gospel. If it is surreal to me, then how must it feel to him, who has every reason to believe that he's facing serious injuries in the minutes to come. Sure, we're supposed to stand in our enemies' shoes, and all, to understand them – but right now, I'd rather be around everywhere in Brooklyn than in Terrence Maverick Jones' leather Balmorals. His eyes grow twice as bigs as the twist in the situation slowly gets to him. He looks all cartoon-ish now, excessive and wide-eyed, and I could swear I've seen that exact face somewhere in those Disney movies. I'm fairly positive we've read the same article in the news, claiming that the man who now stands before us was dead for good. Jones freezes, then bursts in laughter.

“Oh, come on. Such- such things only happen in B-movies. Mortimer, tell me, as a critic, would you let so predictable a plot twist go uncriticized ? The bad guy losing last minute, after spending too much time soliloquizing, and the good guy coming back from the dead just in time. No offense meant, but you scarcely fit Hollywood's standards for heroes, Jonathan. Something to do with those scars all around your nonetheless pretty face, or that murderous rage in your features. And that striking likeness with Karlo-”

Jones receives another bullet in his hand as payback, and he lets out a small cry.

“Stand up” whispers Jonathan, trying hard to control himself.

I stand up quickly to my feet (rule number one : obey Jonathan's orders. Always. And _as quick as you can.)_

“Not you, doctor. I was talking to the blood-stained rat whining on the carpet, a rat who, if he stands up _now,_ won't be hurt too badly, I promise.”

The so-called rat somehow manages to stand up and raises his hands above his head, blood staining his vest and his shirt, now that there's not much left of his hand except a rather messy mass of hemorrhaging flesh.

“Actually, I was lying. Even if you do stand up quickly, it's still going to hurt terribly.”

Now it is  _genuine fear_ I see in Jones' irises, in each feature of his long face, sheer raw fear dripping down his whole body language. And even in the tone of his voice when he speaks up.

“W-we can work together, I swear. Put down that g-gun, will you ? Don't aim at me. Do not aim it at me, please. I am sorry for borrowing your partner, alright ? I did not hurt him. I mean it, I didn't, I swear, I swear to you, Johnny-”

That must be the breaking point somehow because Jonathan's fingers tighten around the gun's grip and he now seems all too determined to act on his word. He answers back, terrifyingly calm, uttering each word as if it was physically painful.

“Call me Johnny again and I'll decorate the insides of your ribcage with your cerebral cortex, and doctor Einstein knows I could do it, _right, doctor ?”_ (I nod frenetically. Apart from not wanting to upset Jonathan, I have to admit that it's true, he _could._ )

Jones is cornered, he knows it, all three of us know it, and all three of us also know that a cornered animal is extremely dangerous. He looks left, then right, and I understand that he has a plan _a second_ before he actually carries it out. And I cry “Watch out !” as fast as my response speed allows me to, which still turns out to be too slow.

Jones bounds like a tiger, and he is surprisingly quiet considering the swiftness of his move. He catches the back of the critic's chair and holds it tight against him. A second later he stands meters away from where he was, holding Mortimer like a shield between him and Jonathan. Somehow, he managed to grab a scalpel in my open surgical case. He sort of looks like some dandy-esque version of Jack the Ripper, holding the weapon, haloed out by the window right behind him. I can't see his face because of the light behind him, but he does definitely look like he's lost any remaining sense he had in him.

It is understandable, though. When one isn't used to it, Jonathan's presence tends to do that to people. It clearly doesn't spur someone to remain sane. And... and judging by his reaction when Jonathan shot him, I can safely assume he's extremely worried about his own well-being. Strange how a sadistic murderer like him can be so scared of pain, so terrified that he can't even stand the sight of his own blood puddling on the tiles.

“Drop that weapon, Jonathan Brewster.” Jones holds the critic tighter against him. His hand isn't very firm on the scalpel's grip, though, just enough to hold it against Mortimer's temple. Surely, he must be dead scared of the blade, thinking he might start bleeding again. Still, he did manage to grab the weapon in my case in a second. I'll give it to him ; he may not be a criminal mind like my ex-partner, but he's way faster than Jonathan, in spite of this skinny, feeble body of his. Jonathan is well aware of that fact. He's understood what's at stake here, Mortimer's life being in the balance. He knows Jones would act on his threats. When you're in his position you don't have much left to lose.

“Drop that weapon or I may deprive you of the great honor of killing your brother yourself.”

Jonathan seems to hesitate a little, then puts down his gun with a silent growl. Only then do I notice that his mouth is scarred by a nasty burn on the right side of his lips, a few centimeters long, and that next to his temple some of his locks are charred. Still, despite Jones' order, Jonathan refuses to put his hands behind his head. Matter of principles, I guess.

As far as I can remember he's never let anyone threaten him before. He's been in some close calls with the police and with other outlaws, but the situation always turned in his favor very quickly. (Maybe not that time at the Brewster house. I'll have to ask him about that later. When we're out of this mess. If.)

“You can smirk and laugh at me, Mr. Brewster, the situation is what it is. I won. I won in every possible way. I get my revenge on everyone in this room : this critic who should know better than to humiliate my work, you, your and your stupid fame and your stupid success, and this little doctor who didn't obey me.”

Johnny and I share a glance and it is clear he's reached the same conclusion as I did, no matter how stubborn and proud he is. This madman is going to kill the whole lot of us. We're going to die. If he doesn't react, we're going to die... If _I_ don't react, we're going to die.

Yet...

I'm not outstandingly clever and I am especially bad at handling desperate situations, the past has proven it. Yet... Right now...

There _is_ something I can do.

But I have to act fast, and for it to work, I need Mortimer (the only person who could possibly execute the draft of a plan I just came up with) to help me. First and foremost, I need him to understand what he has to do _without Jones noticing anything_. It is a matter of seconds now. Our common foe may not be a genius but he certainly isn't stupid. And, like he said, I shouldn't underestimate him ever again.

“You are going to raise your hands, Jonathan Brewster. Now.”

I step back. And make it as loud as I can. I need to get Mortimer Brewster's attention. I need to... I stare at him as hard as I can, with each eye I have, all while obediently raising my hands so as not to annoy Jones _too much_. But he doesn't seem to be paying me any attention, right now. He's soliloquizing to Jonathan about power balance, fate, and the common sense of obeying whoever possesses a gun.

“Mortimer,” I whisper in his direction, volume low enough not to cover the stentorian voice lecturing my ex-partner, and just high enough so he can hear me thirteen feet away.

“You have ten seconds before I stab your little brother's charming head with a scalpel” concludes Jones. Okay. Now's the countdown. It was obvious it was going to come to this in the end. He can't let Jonathan ignore his threats much longer if he wants to keep whatever authority and credibility he has left.

« Mortimer, » je murmure en direction du critique littéraire, la voix suffisamment basse pour qu'elle ne couvre pas trop la voix de stentor qui s'exprime juste derrière lui, et suffisamment haute pour qu'il puisse m'entendre à quatre mètres de distance. But Mortimer has heard me stepping back. He raises his head, his eyes meet mine and I can finally breathe. We have a chance.

“One...”

With an oh-so-slight gesture of the chin, I show him the window behind him.

“Two...”

He looks at me in incomprehension. OK, this is not going to be as easy as I thought.

“Three...”

I bite my lip, start to panic, try to come up with other ways to make it understand. Come on, Mortimer Brewster, please, please understand. I plead with you. Please understand this. You are an intelligent man, I know it. (Plus we've already had that discussion, I remember.)

“Four...”

For the second time I point my chin in the window's direction, telepathically begging him to figure it out – _Gott in Himmel_ , please-

“Five...”

A swift draft enters the window just then, and I see the prisoner's eyes light up. He's got it.

“Six... Please, Jonathan, let's not do it too whodunnit-y, now, shall we ? I thought you cared about taking your brother's life yourself, if you don't care about anything else.”

Mortimer got the idea. I know just by meeting his eyes that he understood.

“... Seven.”

Johnny doesn't look in my direction, he doesn't look in his brother's direction, he doesn't look in Jones' direction, not even a single time ; he's staring at some indeterminate point on the skyline as if he was already convinced to die. _As if_. Because all I need is one quick glance at his face just to know that he, too, knows what is going to happen.

“Eight. You're not going to let me down, _Johnny,_ are you ?”

Jonathan tenses up. I hold my breath. I swear something in the atmosphere of the room has shifted.

“Nine. Nine, Jonathan.”

Jonathan pretends to be raising his arms, slowly.

“Ten-”

Mortimer suddenly throws himself backwards as hard as the ropes allow him to - the back of the chair hits Jones in the ribcage - once, but violently. It's an unsettling noise, something that only means damage and maybe cracked bones – thankfully, not to anyone on our side. He drops the knife instantly. Poor Jones who tried to lash out at a Brewster. He struggles to breathe, let alone to scream, and lets out some kind of a muffled shout. He's stumbling. I know what happens next. We know what happens next. Terrence Jones is the only one in this room who doesn't, and that's why he's so terrified when Mortimer gives him the second blow. A stronger one. He screams, this time, and he has no way to prevent himself from tripping and falling against the window.

No – let me correct myself. Jones' entire body hits the window at the exact same moment.

The glass literally explodes. Glass fragments are thrown about in every possible direction, even inside of the room, which, considering basic physics, is pretty impressive. The sound is screeching, high, horrible ; as if each of those fragments was howling in pain. Then comes the blood, the blood pouring out of all the cuts on Jones' body, and soon there's so much red it's almost as if it was dripping from each pore of his skin. Windows _are_ dangerous. He falls backwards and I don't even need to look by the window to know that he has just hit the ground three floors below – I'm not positive I want to see Terrence Maverick Jones' dislocated corpse staining the pavement of this quiet little street. This... This was intense.

It's always like that with Jonathan Brewster – you always get more than you bargained for.

It's only when the room begins to grow blurry that I realize I may have been holding my breath. Air finally fills my lungs, erratic and fresh, _um Himmels willen_ , did I need it. There it is. Done. We did it.

I can't really imagine what a stranger would think if they walked in the room right now – all three of us (Brewsters and I) alive or so, one being tied to a chair and the other two in poor shape – and two corpses that both seem to come from here, one shot dead in a corner of the room, the other one very much dead too, with a bloodstained window and a surgical case on the dinner table.

I wonder if my life is ever going to be  _this_ strange.


	7. Fate

“We did it, Joh-”

I take one single look at Jonathan and freeze. He doesn't understand why I stare at him like that, dumbfounded. At most, he feels a tingle of pain in his forehead. He takes two fingers to his left eye, then looks at them as the blood drips down to his palm.

Slit eyebrow arch. A stray glass spinter, probably. It's not a serious wound in any way, but it sends sharps of pain in my chest nonetheless to even look at it. I take one good look at it, and figure out it may well be a little more deep than I first thought. It's strange, but... It's strange, but even though I should be used to seeing other people's blood by now, the sight of Jonathan's blood hurts much more than other people's.

Almost unconsciously, I step towards him, start taking care of the wound – the longer I try to stop the bleeding the more I panic.

“Enough, doctor,” Jonathan growls with an annoyed look on his face, as he pushes me aside. He's never enjoyed being taken care of, never liked the idea of someone healing him, of appearing weak to someone, anyone, even to _me_. Or at least – he acts as if he didn't like it.

The problem is... By standing there for a few seconds, taking care of Jonathan's eye, I obscured his vision field, at least until he pushes me away. But those few seconds, Mortimer made the most of them – he quietly left the room, as any sane person would have done in a heartbeat. All that's left behind are the ropes that tied him to his chair, which had been cut off in the collision with Jones and (most of all) the window. I seem to hear the door of the apartment slam shut behind the second Brewster brother as he puts as much distance between him and Jonathan as possible, and, as I said – I can't find it in me to blame him for having a survival instinct.

“You've ruined a unique occasion to get rid of my brother, doctor. I won't tolerate this kind of mistakes from now on.” Jonathan's tone is deep and dark, sure enough, but it isn't actually threatening, the way it has been many times in the past. Reading between the lines, I understand that Mortimer isn't his number one priority right now.

Inspecting his eyebrow arch enabled me to notice that there are several nasty burns on his face. He'll need me to check that they aren't serious – at least put some ointment, look for any trace of infection. But right now, what I need to do is to lay against a wall, catch my breath, and get some explanations.

“Johnny, how very happy I am to see you alive ! I'd read that you were dead in the newspaper, and... You managed to escape from the fire, then ? You have burns all over your face, it might be dangerous, I'll need to inspect th-”

A hand gets hold of my neck and shoves me hard against the wall – I struggle for air, as Jonathan's face gets closer to mine, hissing in my ears.

“I owe you no explanation, doctor. Nevertheless, I think you yourself owe me one or two. Doctor, what _exactly_ have you done for Jones ?”

I wait for him to let go a little before I can actually speak.

“I- I didn't help him, Johnny, I swear- he threatened me, he did, but I did nothing, didn't want to help him kill Mortimer- would've done it for you, but-”

But then I find myself unable to speak because something is pushing against my mouth and the air can't come inside of my lungs for a few seconds, until I can breathe freely again.

“I'll let it slip this time, then, doctor,” Jonathan whispers as soon as he's caught his breath. “Don't worry about the burns. I didn't stay next to the flames very long. Just enough time for them to destroy the cell so I could run away. Crow followed me ; that I hadn't predicted, but I went along. I made him work for me.”

My oxigen-deprived brain still manages to make a link between that poor guy I helped in the back-alley and one of the inmate of Johnny's cell – Archie Crow was his name, or something along those lines, from what I read in the newspaper, in the article about the jail fire.

“But Johnny, I could craft you a brand new face if you want, we have all the room and tools we want here, do you want to keep those scars forever ? Won't take long, I promise, just an anesthesia, you go to sleep and-”

Second suffocation – even though the word terribly lacks romantism. I tug at Johnny's tie because it feels like I'm burning alive and I have to stay in my right mind if I need to operate on him later. Jonathan keeps on talking right afterwards, as if nothing happened.

“But Crow got beaten up by a rival gang, some hoodlums he knew from before he went to jail. And you came across him, doctor. That's some nice work you did there. He'd probably be dead by now, and both you and Mortimer too, shot by that guy Craster's gun, because I wouldn't have been able to save you. Crow told me about you, and it didn't take me long to figure out who that little-doctor-with-a-Kraut-accent was ; he gave me your adress. The rest was damn easy.”

I know that he isn't listening to me, that he never does, but I want to tell him something, I want it so  _bad_ , and I want him to hear what I have to say. So I let out a whisper, gritting my teeth, as low as possible, but I ought to know better – Jonathan has and has always had a terrific hearing.

“I don't like seeing you in this state, Jonathan.”

He knows how very seldom I call him by his full name, and he knows (and I know that he knows), in the way I'm looking at him right now, that I'm sober, and very much so. He seems slightly... Slightly... Offbeat. That's an extremely rare expression on Jonathan Brewster's face, that I can tell you.

“A couple of other guys died in the fire, so I put two of them in our cells so there would be five bodies. The idiots didn't look further, they had no reason to – there are enough alive criminals in New York now for them to waste time on dead ones.” Jonathan keeps talking, as if he hadn't heard anything. He loves doing that, he does. “Even an idiot like Hindsborough wouldn't set fire to a damn entire jail cell so easily. But he'd been drinking, that night. I made him do so. Wasn't too hard, though. He stole the matches himself, and well, you know the rest.”

A long silence follows, several minutes long. I don't know what to say, or what to do, and Jonathan seems to be waiting for something- waiting for me to guess what he wants me to say or do. In the end, he takes a few steps away from me and heads for the door.

“You know, doctor...”

I look at him straight in the eye.

“Yes, Johnny ?”

“If Jones had – if anyone – called me... well... by that little nickname, I would have acted on my threat. I really would have.”

I nod, as a little smile makes its way to the corner of my lips, hoping he won't notice. And I whisper two small words, torn between how I want him to hear them and how afraid I am that he will.

“I know.”

  
  


**

“You coming with me, doctor ?” Jonathan asks, his head turned slightly towards me.

In a state of semi-consciousness, I look up in his direction. There we are - me, kneeling next to my suitcase as I gather my smeared instruments ; him standing by the door ; around ten feet away from each other. With a table in the middle. And two chairs. And a blood-soaked corpse with a bullet in the heart. The seconds go by, as I stare at his large back, unable to say a word. It's highly unwise to hang around a crime scene, but for some reason I can't for the life of me stand up. Too many emotions, maybe – I still struggle to order my tools because of the shakiness. And most of all, we both know we stand at a crossroad, and I don't know if he intends on letting us part ways.

« The police will be here any minute, » he says, as if only stating a fact.

  
  


And I realize that he's giving me a choice here.

  
  


At once the terror is gone, the fear disappears, the emptiness vanishes in the air ; my hands finally stop shaking. At last, the answer becomes obvious. I stand, step above Craster's cooling body. Confident. Light. It feels like we've just met – like I really know what I'm doing. Like this life is mine (for the takin.

« I follow you, Johnny. »

When the police breaks into the flat, several minutes later, all they find is a chair stained with blood splashes, a corpse several floors under the window, and another one, a blooming red flower on his chest. I reckon no one found the few regrets that followed my decision of sticking with Jonathan Brewster – when I left Brooklyn, when _we_ left Brooklyn straight after, I hid them under the carpet and left them there forever.

After all, _it's a bit too late to dissolve our patnership, isn't it ?_

 


End file.
